Porn Enough at Last

Life sucks, nowadays, and so do I. The most I can say for myself is that I haven’t sat on my glasses yet.

Hair like the starburst of an exploding rocket frames the tiger-girl’s face, only an upside-down check-mark of a nose arresting the enormous eyes that burn into my own. A rogue canine tooth edges over the line of her pursed lips. She cups her breasts in her fingers, the flesh oozing around their edges, and from this vantage point her sharp knees rise up to bookend her bosom. She’s squatting, lace-edged panties coiled around one thigh, but everything from her navel to the base of the tentacle(s?) she’s riding is obscured behind an unsolvable mosaic puzzle.

There are three main ways the censors desecrated the dirty comic books filling the warehouse I raided after the world ended. The cover-ups are all pixel-based. Sometimes they’d magnify the pixels into one vague lump, sometimes they’d rotate the pixels around, and sometimes they’d scramble the color scheme. The result’s the same; a blurry mess instead of hardcore fucking. Which, sure, since they mostly applied the mosaic to penetration there’s still plenty of tits, ass, etc.—and you can use your imagination for the rest. It isn’t the end of the world; that’s outside my bunker.

Hentai wasn’t really my bag before Armageddon; in fact porn in general was only an occasional indulgence once I got old enough to start slobbering on girlfriends and the odd boyfriend. It wasn’t some judgy thing on my part—I was just so damn busy getting busy that I rarely made time for solo porn-sessions… but I’ve been making up for that now.

I’ve also grown to appreciate the moon-eyed style of hentai, thanks to the megaload I discovered—by the time I’d carted everything back to my bunker, the hoard filled an entire room. Squeezing fifty thousand imaginary partners into a 10X10 chamber makes up for the diminished floor-space, and I’d like to think that even if I hit it off well enough with one of the other survivors to invite them in, they’d be okay with sacrificing square footage for a cartoon harem. Hell, I know they would be, as the few survivors I associate with are my customers, and they’re obviously hot on the library.

Any porn is hard to come by. And talkies? Forget it: you’re lucky to find juice at all, let alone enough to get your own juices flowing. I heard an entrepreneur in one of the subterranean colonies has a projector/DVD player-combo wired up to some exercise bikes, and if you’ve got the barter you can peddle yourself to paradise. I guess I can see the appeal, especially if the seats have comfortable enhancements—and industrial-grade sanitizer for those enhancements—but only barely. I’m as masochistic as the next slob who didn’t eat rat-poison when the world whimpered, but working out while getting off is a touch kinky even for me.

I say that, sure, but minutes later I’m leering over my current work-in-progress. The thought of watching other people get off, even on some jury-rigged porno-fixies, has riled me up big time. I’ve gotten good at reading one-handed, flipping sharp pages with an adroit thumb. Then I turn the page, and my tiger-eared teenager riding the veiny hard-on of an intersex superhero goes from Christ-that-cock-looks-good-up-her-ass to what-the-hell-was-I-thinking-this-was-vaginal. I slump back, disappointed in myself. I scan the panels, and yeah, it’s a pretty great anal scene, but flipping back confirms that I started it off as vaginal and never transitioned. Which looks semi-okay in some panels, but in others the angle is stupid-off. Back to the drawing board.

Evaluating my handiwork, I opt for a cover-up instead of shelving the book. There weren’t a lot of duplicates in the warehouse, which seems to point to it having been a collector’s stash rather than a manufacturer’s supply, and so the odds of me seeing this particular volume again are slim. I really like that hermaphroditic superhero’s character design, too—leggy but not overly stacked, unlike most intersex characters I’ve found in hentai, and with a cute butch haircut—so it’s time to get busy.

I line up a blank swatch over the appropriate section of the first panel in need of work, which has Tiger-girl bending over a table. Her panties are halfway down her thighs and her tail’s in the air while our superhero inserts two dripping fingers into her… ass? Damn. I’d just assumed the censored penetration was vaginal, but the sloppy angling I’d done confirms my error. Great Overfiend’s Ghost, I’ve denied poor Tiger-girl a taint! No woman, not even a felid mutant, has her junk that far back—this scene was supposed to be anal from the get-go.

Soon I have the first panel penciled in. I remove the swatch before inking it, and then move on to the next panel. And the next. And the next. My hand’s cramping and my eyes are squinting. Repairing pornography is slow going, even if I can recognize the obvious improvement I’ve made as an artist, and even though trading the restored hentai to horny survivors from the colonies is what keeps me in chow and bathtub booze. When I’m in the zone it can be great, but I occasionally dread the work.

I only fixed the first hentai as an escape from boredom—foraging is dicey work, so I’d mostly skulk in my bunker masturbating to censored porn written in a language I couldn’t read… until I hit on the idea of restoring the mosaic-hidden details. I’d already been slinging the as-found volumes in exchange for supplies, but after bartering a crate’s worth for a draughtsman’s kit, scissors, glue, and a ream of paper, I set to covering up the cover-ups.

My first attempts were… bad. Awful. Nevertheless, the horn-dogs went nuts for ’em, and as I’ve gotten better I’ve been able to demand more for my labors. Hey, it’s easier and faster than drawing a comic from scratch. And I’m not really creative enough to think up my own characters and plots, fun as it sounds.

Restoration is monotonous as hell, and despite my long-standing request nobody has yet delivered a kanji or kana dictionary so I can try to translate the text. Especially when I’m on my third or fourth round of the day, I get the hankering to know what’s going on in those panels. Beyond all the fucking, I mean.

I take a break, eat, nap, and when I return to my studio the ink and glue have dried—three full pages worth, each with several swatches pasted over my previous cover-ups, so the pixilated portions are now buried under two layers of meticulously cut and illustrated penetration. If you didn’t look for it, you wouldn’t be able to tell where the original artwork bleeds into mine, where the line of some dead artist becomes my own, where old pole meets new hole.

My hand isn’t cramped anymore, and looking over Tiger-girl and her spandexed paramour jumping straight to anal puts me in a happy place, one where I can temporarily forget that it’s my hours of labor down there in front of me. I rarely wear pants, because duh, and surveying the book, I slip a hand south. Honestly, anal always intimidated me in the Before Time—but nowadays the nastier the action the better.

Just then the doorbell rings and I nearly sweep everything off the table in a reflexive definitely-not-masturbating-in-here motion.

Another buzz and I catch my breath, remind myself that there are two airlocks and a decontamination chamber between me and my visitor—nobody’s peeking through the curtains. Besides, I’m an independent adult who managed to survive the apocalypse—why shouldn’t I be allowed to beat off in my own bunker?

I head directly to the foyer, since it’s probably Park here for his weekly pick-up. I’ll be going through the first airlock to drop off the hentai, which means a hazard suit, which means there’s no need to put on pants before answering the door—one advantage to the end of the world.

In the foyer I stub my toe on the quadruple-bagged parcel of repaired hentai awaiting my best customer—outside of my studio, I keep the track lighting dimmed low, conserving my solar-sapped energy for decon, climate control, and showers. I eyeball the periscope-style peephole, just to make sure it’s Park.

It’s him, all right, the Viking-horns crowning his bio-helmet unmistakable, but next to Park is another figure in a less conspicuous haz-suit.

“What the fuck?” I ask the empty foyer, since I can’t very well ask Park. As if he’s heard me, though, he raises a cardboard sign. It reads:

Let’s talk. Impor-

-tant. Very lucrative.

Let me+partner in?

“Hells no!” I say, shaking my head in disbelief. “As if I’d trust some grody perv-merchant!”

Again, it’s like he’s hearing me, because he flips the board over and on the back I see:

Please???

It’ll be fun!

“Well, since you asked so nice,” I mutter, leaving the peephole and giving him a toot of my outer alarm to acknowledge that I’ve seen him. Back in the studio, I grab a pen, meaning to substantially revise the missive I’d stuck to the top of his pick-up—over the last dozen transactions the notes we’ve exchanged have grown into letters, but if he thinks that means I trust him enough to let him inside, especially with some random goon, he’s got another think coming.

Like my mouth on his cock. His buddy’s, too. I can count the number of dicks I’ve sucked on one hand, but right now some oral swashbuckling is sounding tasty.

“Where did that come from?” I ask myself, looking up from the giant FUCK YOUUUUU I’ve just scrawled over the top page of the letter. I don’t know if I can trust Park not to slit my throat and steal my bunker if I let him—and yet I’m fantasizing about him! I don’t know what he looks like, if he’s even into what I might offer, or any of the other concerns you ought to consider before letting a stranger into your pants or your bomb-shelter. He might not even be a pervert like me; he might not consume the merchandise at all, just sell it; he might have the sex appeal of an orangutan behind his opaque face-plate…

But I’m going to find out. I’m shaking as I crumple up the letter-cum-brush-off and return to the foyer. I pop the outer hatch before I lose my nerve. What decided it for me was this: if Park and partner come inside, they’ll shed their haz-suits in the decon chamber, and, call me a creep if you must, I know that I don’t wear much under my suit. I can barely remember what a real person looks like in their underoos, but as I hear the outer hatch close behind them, it really sinks in that I’m about to get reacquainted with the human form.

Eventually. Decon takes forevs, so I busy myself with a rare shower, and almost get dressed before thinking better of it. They’re going to be in their skivvies, at most, and I don’t want to be overdressed. A tight shirt and clean underwear that shows that shows off my best assets without seeming too obvious. As if it isn’t obvious I’m not wearing anything else…

After they’re finally though the locks and I get the beep that decon’s complete, I fidget in the foyer. This is it. There’s no backing out now, no way to give them the message through the decon door to put their suits back on before I re-open the airlock…

“Please don’t kill me,” I whisper, and open the door.

Park is a short dude, and his partner’s a tallish woman. They’re probably ten years older than me—or maybe not, these days I probably look a decade older myself. His skin’s almost as black as a freshly dipped crow-quill pen, his head’s shaved to the scalp, and his jaggedly handsome features evoke those of a statue some talented-but-inexperienced sculptor rushed to completion. She’s less statue and more oil painting, a severe bob and sharp bangs eclipsing her plain-but-pretty-for-it face, with a few intricate freckle constellations highlighting her moonlight-pale skin.

Both are completely naked. I pretend not to notice either her full bush or his shaved package, but probably don’t do a good job of it.

“Alex?” says the woman, her American accent sending a lightning bolt from my ears to my crotch. Not that I have a thing for Yanks, but just to hear another human voice …

“That’s me,” I stammer, self-conscious of my half-naked appearance—they can get away with full nude, fit as they are, but I’m pretty slack about exercise down here.

“Park?” I shake Sajit’s hand as I look to the girl. “I thought you were… huh.”

“It’s Korean—hard to put a face with a last name, I know,” she says, smiling, and, to my surprise, she pounces forward, throwing her arms around me. “And hey, just going on Alex, I didn’t know if you were a man or a woman, either—not that I’m complaining.”

The hug is more stimulating than most head I’ve received, and when I catch Sajit smirking at me over her shoulder I blush with the heat of a megaton explosion.

“No?” I say, trying to keep cool. The things I want to do to these naked strangers is scrambling all semblance of rational thought into an incoherent blur of lecherous possibilities, and when Park drops her arms away I feel it like the amputation of a limb.

“Right, let’s get down to business,” says Sajit, and I nearly swoon. That we’re all instantaneously on the same page is like something out of a hentai, but just as I’m about to make my move Sajit adds, “But do you, uh, have anything I can put on? I’m feeling a little exposed!”

It’s a straightforward proposal. Sex sells, obviously, and we’ve all done quite well by my repaired pornographies. But sex with a story sells, too, and is a heretofore untapped demographic. Their proposition is that rather than putting my hentai onto the market with just the censored sex redrawn, Park will rewrite the text that goes with it; all those blocks of kanji and kana thought-bubbles, all that unintelligible pillow-talk.

“You can read’em?” I ask, the three of us standing around my studio, Sajit stuffed into a bathrobe I scrounged up, Park wearing a t-shirt and my only other clean pair of underwear. Both are a little baggy on her, the undies riding low enough on her hips to give me a mouth-watering eyeful whether she’s coming or going. “The Japanese, I mean?”

“No,” she says. “But I can make up new stories. Already have, in fact—I white-out the Japanese characters, and then write new text for them in Chinese, Spanish, or Arabic, depending on what settlement they’re bound for.”

“Oh,” is all I’ve got, irrationally wounded at her altering my books.

“It was the obvious play,” says Park, putting a book down and meeting my gaze. Her eyes are filled with more mischief than the entirety of my collection.

“Customers are busting nut and nest-egg alike over ’em,” Sajit says. “Charging double, triple what we used to. And we’re getting special requests, orders that’ll pay ten times as much as regular books.”

“Oh,” I say again, and out of bruising pride, pout. “Well, what do you need me for? If you’re improving my crude pornos anyway, why come here and rub my nose in it?”

“Alex,” says Park, stepping over and putting her arm around my shoulder. Holy fuck does it feel good. “Your work’s anything but crude. And nobody said anything about improving, just… adding another layer. There’s a techie who’ll pay us in pre-war whisky if we deliver a hentai that’s got some schoolgirls sucking off a hairy guy we slap his name on. And a colony mayor who’s got three flats of cat food for us if we supply her with a comic where a princess with her moniker gets touched on by a tentacle monster… so long as the tentacle monster sings Rick Astley to her.”

“The Rickroll Ravisher,” says Sajit, shaking his head.

“So we three work together, Sajit securing orders, you and me scouring your library here for suitable source materials. You restore the porn and I write new dialogue… you see where we’re going?” Park squeezes my shoulder, and I nod. The weirdest thing is that I’m just as excited at the prospect of collaborating with Park as I am about the sensation of a strong, feminine arm burning into my back. This could be just the thing to get me amped about the work again, and if it pays in old school booze and tins of Fancy Feast, even better.

“Is that a yes, Alex?” asks Sajit, coming around to my other side. His robe makes it fairly obvious that his flipping through my works-in-progress has aroused more than his entrepreneurial sensibilities.

“That’s a big yes,” I say, eyeing the semi-erect penis straining against the terrycloth. His bulge makes me light-headed, and I quickly avert my gaze. In doing so, however, I notice Park’s stiff nipples jutting slightly upward through her borrowed shirt, which doesn’t exactly cool my overheating radiator. And by radiator I mean genitalia.

“We could even do some of our own, if you wanted,” says Park, and for the first time she actually sounds shy, uncertain. “Porn, sure, but regular comics, too. Like, if you… if you liked an idea I had, you could draw everything, instead of just filling in the dirty bits in the hentai.”

“Unless Alex prefers just filling in the dirty bits,” breathes Sajit, his palm settling on the back of the hand Park still has on my shoulder; flesh covering-up flesh covering-up flesh. There’s a moment of tension as I look back and forth between them, and then all three of us are laughing at the cheesiness of the set-up, the triteness of his come-on.

“I’m down,” I say when our shared giggling fit wanes. “Re-writing the hentai’s smart, but original stuff sounds even better—Heavy Metal-style or Comic Code Approved, whatevs. Let’s do it all. I’m just happy you two didn’t come in here to murder my ass.”

Sajit seems offended. “You need to get out more. It’s hardly Fallout. People help each other.”

“Like we’re going to help you,” says Park, her hand creeping out from under Sajit’s, leaving his on my shoulder while hers runs down my back. “He thought I should outline the proposal in my next letter, but I thought if we all met face to face it would go smoother.”

“Smoother,” I say, my body locking up as Park’s fingers run from the base of my spine to the band of my underwear, toying with the elastic. Then she goes lower still. “I… are we…?”

“We talked it out,” says Park, her hair ticking my ear as she leans closer. “So long as you weren’t too hideous. Something about your taste in porn made me think we’d all get along, regardless of whether or not the mysterious ‘Alex’ was man or woman, fat or skinny, young or old. We’re fresh out of decon and disease-free—so, assuming you’re also DTF, wanna research our first collaboration?”

“So I’m ‘not too hideous,’” I dryly ask Sajit. “I’m flattered.”

“She just likes to give people a hard time,” says Sajit, stepping closer. He almost manages to add “Me too” without cracking up, but not quite, and then we’re all laughing again. And minutes later we’re all in my bedroom, awkwardly clustered at the edge of the bed that was always too spacious for just me. We’ve got a three-way hug-thing going on, taking turns kissing one another as six hands explore three bodies.

Sajit kisses me first, his coquettish tongue stinging with artificial mint. Then I kiss Park, and the unadulterated, slightly sour taste of her is even hotter than her partner’s breath-mint sanitized mouth. She’s an aggressive kisser, and feeling her grope one of my buttocks while Sajit brushes the other is enough to make me want to choke on her tongue. When she breaks the kiss I’m winded, and watching her turn and give Sajit the same treatment does little to help me catch my breath. They both watch me from the corners of their eyes as they kiss, and I swear to all the horny gods of hentai heaven that I’ll never bemoan my life again.

I think that, but then everything goes straight to hell—I take off my shirt, then pop my thumbs into the waistband of my underwear, all set to seductively lower them, when I catch sight of the impossible, the unthinkable, the utterly insane state of my nethers. Or rather, I don’t catch sight of anything, which is the problem: from my waistline down it’s all just a blur of mosaic tiles. As I said, the light isn’t great outside of my studio, but that can’t account for this.

I blink, waiting for what has to be a hallucination to pass, for my traitorous eyes to stop censoring my own junk, but everything remains scrambled. Sajit and Park are watching me—I must look like a lunatic, gawping down into my stretched-open underwear. It’s like a waking nightmare, and I enter full-blown panic mode, convinced that this is actually happening, somehow, that this isn’t a hallucination… and if my guests notice the mosaic cloud hovering between my legs they’ll split for sure, not wanting anything to do with my reality-bending genitalia.

“Um, so yeah…” I say, letting my underwear snap back in place. My mind races, too horny to think straight, too scared that they’ll bounce if they see the censored state of my crotch… and then I hit on what I hope is a plausible fib: “This is super embarrassing, but yeah: I’ve been masturbating way too much recently, and, uh, I hope this doesn’t gross you guys out, but I’m too sore to fool around right now. Totally out of commission.”

They’re both really cool about it, but before the mood gets any less sexy in here I hasten to add, ”But please, you guys, can I play with you? Right now? Just, like, lay off me, but I swear if you let me help you two get off I’ll never, ever ask for another favor. Please?”

I move in, showing her how shy I am—impossible intrusion of comic book censorship into the real world or not, I’m desperate to get better acquainted with these two.

I look back and forth between them as the three of us sprawl out on my bed, limbs overlapped, faces so close that the humidity makes my glasses fog. Sajit looks hesitant, says, “I dunno, it doesn’t seem fair to—” when Park leans over and kisses me again, softer this time, yet somehow with even more evident need. Her hand snakes across my belly, and I almost tell her to move it down but again balk at what’s going on in my underwear—this is a test, I tell myself, and all I need to do is get these two off, and then the horny gods of hentai heaven will lift my mosaic curse. Look, I know how stupid that sounds, but until you’ve found your gear disappeared just as you’re at the very apex of your randiness…

Park’s fingers leave my skin, and then I feel Sajit’s stiff member pulled loose from the robe to rest against my stomach. The sensation of her knuckles rubbing my belly as she slowly tugs on his shaft makes me shudder with delight.

It’s my first threesome, and it’s clumsy and weird and tough to get the logistics right. After some more of the tumbled, jumbled three-way kissing and touching, though, Park directs us into position, so that I can go down on her while she continues to kiss and fondle Sajit—she stretches out with a pillow boosting her bottom up in the air, I crouch down between her legs, and he wiggles closer to better caress her pert breasts while they make out.

Crawling between her knees is a transcendental experience. I feel like a priestess in one of my comics, bowing at an altar just before the sex-demon seizes her outrageous bosom, or like one of the wet-dreaming teen boys oblivious to the lusty goddess creeping under his blankets to gobble his dick. Park’s muscular legs part to welcome me as I lean closer and closer. There she is, every inch shivering in anticipation, and I nuzzle at her inner thigh. This is…

Oh no. Anything but this.

I’ve torn my eyes away from the crazy-hot sight of Sajit sucking on Park’s breast as his hand massages the wiry copse wreathing her pubic mound, his fingers gently prodding the skin just above my destination… but instead of her vulva, with flesh as light as my preliminary graphite shading, or perhaps as dark as India ink cross-hatching, I see only an impossible puzzle of piebald blocks. The familiar mosaic tiles extend from the pillow beneath her all the way up to the top of her pubes. Sajit’s an inch or two above where her clitoris must be, but even still his fingertips blur into vagueness as they enter the pixel cloud.

I close my eyes and count to ten, but it doesn’t go away, and I wonder just how insane I’ve gone. Looking up, neither Park nor Sajit seem to have noticed anything amiss; his lips are off her breast and back at her mouth, the abandoned, spit-slickened nipple standing in relief. Are Park and Sajit even here, or am I hallucinating them both, the same as I must be hallucinating the mosaic tiles over her groin, and my own?

To hell with this. Hentai-sterical blindness or not, the one thing I’m good at is restoring those lovely details that censorship has hidden. I go slow, because even the preliminary pencil line should be as tight and straight as humanly possible, and I kiss my way up her left thigh, into the cloud. At first it’s maddening, to have entered the nexus of scrambled pixels—it’s even worse than not seeing anything, to have everything there but be so mixed-up, but then, through the miasma of jumbled pixels, I see the goose-pimpled skin of her inner thigh coalesce in puckered-lip-shaped patches. I exhale with relief, the current of my breath reverberating off her still-invisible pussy and bringing me her faintly tangy scent. I duck lower, hands finding her thighs, and begin, carefully, patiently, meticulously, to bring her into focus.

I quickly define her perimeter, drawing the tip of my tongue up one side of her outer labia, skirting the ridge of her clitoral hood, and then back down the other side. I trace my initial sketch with growing confidence and pressure. She squirms, and I happily draft out the intricate interior line-work, establishing borders between minora and majora, between crown and queen. It’s been a long time, and I have to remind myself to frequently withdraw my tongue to dip it in the inkwell of saliva I keep behind my teeth. After I reapply moisture to the tip of my instrument, I move back in, but this time she bucks forward, and I close my eyes as I press my tongue into her.

When I open my eyes the rest of the mosaic is gone, the pixel cloud replaced with the cumulus of her jet-black pubic hair, stirring in tandem with the thrusts of my tongue and the exhalations escaping my nose. I slip my tongue out and drag it up to her swelling clit, then back down again to overlap the finger—and then fingers—I set to working on her increasingly slippery entrance.

“Fuck yeah,” Park groans, inspiring me to redouble my oral efforts.

I’m so focused on my work that I don’t notice Sajit slide down the bed next to me, until a hand settles on one cotton-covered buttock, his fingers inching their way beneath my underwear. Then Park says, “Let him lick your ass, Alex—please? Let him lick you while you lick me?”

“I’ll be careful,” his eager voice reaches the ear that isn’t muted by Park’s thigh. “Promise I’ll stay back here, only use my tongue. Unless you ask for more.”

I’m lying flat on my stomach, and by way of answer clumsily wiggle my ass. I’ll have a sore neck tomorrow, and won’t mind a bit. There’s a moment of fear that my censorship cloud extends back between my legs, but at this point it’s a risk I’m willing to take—I need something, and bad. He pulls my underwear down until the waistband is snared on the base of my cheeks and then his lips warm my tailbone, his fingers kneading and then spreading my ass as he slowly kisses his way down my crack. His breath blasts me, and I can feel every set of muscles in the neighborhood contract as his tongue teases the top of my anus. He’s much slower and gentler with me than I’ve been with Park, who’s cursing up a sexy storm as she watches her partner rim me.

“Fuck yes,” Park says. “Oh, fuck, I can’t wait to fuck you and Sajit and watch you two fuck and fuck, that’s good! Less fingers, please, and more clit. I’m close, Alex, close!”

Again, not much real life experience with anal beyond a few aborted attempts with overzealous boys and the odd girl, but I am loving Sajit’s attentions. He takes his time, melting me with his strokes, and when his thick tongue actually penetrates me a little, I gasp, the sensation so overpowering I momentarily stall out. Momentarily. I’m self-conscious, of course, it being my butt and all, but then the awesomely rude sensation sets me to licking Park even harder.

“Fuck,” Park grunts. “You two got me so fucking good. You like him licking you, Alex? You love it?”

In answer, I plant my free hand on her thigh and rock her backward to get at her ass. Fumbling around until I got my expert page-turning thumb atop her vulva, I tenderly sweep my digit over her clit as I bring my mouth into position, panting over her perineum. She gasps but dutifully keeps herself rocked back as I flit my tongue out and begin circling her dark, delicately crenulated button. After making a few laps I press into her now-twitching asshole, the exhilarating, almost-bitter taste of her bottom driving me to push my own further into Sajit’s face. I want to confess everything, to beg Sajit to start playing with my front as well as my back, even at the risk of his being confused by a cloud of pixels… but that would mean taking my mouth off of Park. No fucking way.

My tongue goes deep into her, his tongue goes deep into me, and my pelvis reflexively thrusts forward, causing my throbbing crotch to rub against a hummock of sheets that have bunched up between my legs. I grind harder into the neither too-pliable nor too-firm mound of bedding, burying my tongue teeth-deep in Park’s ass. Her glistening contours fill my vision, her entrancing scent making my mouth water all the more; her face and everything else are lost to perspective, my thumb a blur over her clit at the top of the panel. This is really happening, I think, and then it is, the event horizon of my own orgasm crossed before I even realized I was close.

“Don’t stop!” Park wails, and I realize I’ve done just that, distracted by my own imminent collapse. I re-moisten my thumb in my mouth and then speed it back into action as I commence tongue-fucking her ass for all I’m worth. I even manage to get my other hand into play, sliding two fingers into her pussy just as our orgasms hit. It would be something to see, I bet, her face scrunched up, hair plastered to her cheek, but that’s on the next page and back here I can’t see anything beyond the blur of her convulsing lower body as my own conclusion arrives.

It’s like the first time I came: a where-the-fuck-did-that-come-from supernova. The craziest part is that while my junk played a small role, rubbing against the snarl of sheets, the real source, I’m sure, is Park. I mean, obviously I have Sajit’s tongue up my ass, which at least makes some kind of sense as to producing an orgasm, but it’s really more like electricity passing from her into me, frying all my wiring, a power surge that effects the circuits of all my overtaxed organs… but yeah, the tongue up my ass probably helps, too.

It’s too much. I moan in protest, rolling away from Sajit and Park, closing my eyes in a vain attempt to restore order to my brain. Everything’s been censored again, the whole world a puzzle, and I shudder with satisfaction as well as fear.

The unmistakable sound of sloppy cocksucking brings me back to reality. Turning over, I see Sajit standing beside the bed, Park kneeling on a pillow at his feet. There’s another mosaic cloud obfuscating where his hard-on and her bobbing head meet, and as always, I wonder what the fuck’s the point, obvious as it is what they’re doing. My strength flows back into me at the promise of cracking that code with my tongue, of unscrambling the cover-up—I just know that Park looks pretty as a picture with a mouthful of Sajit’s cock, and I want to see.

“That looks like fun,” I say, scrambling off the bed. My loins throb happily as I settle onto the floor beside her—I can hardly wait to solicit their help in getting rid of my own pixel fog, but fair is fair, and right now Park and I are both one up on Sajit.

Park pulls her head back from the cloud, grinning at me with drool-glossy lips. “Bet he’d taste better if he’d stuck it up your ass first. OCD bastard’s too clean for his own good.”

Park grabs a handful of my hair and playfully guides me into the cloud, getting me all steamed up again. The obscuring nature of the mosaic no longer frustrates but entices, now that I know how easily the puzzle is solved. I’m close; I can smell his sweat, her spit, and then she gently tugs my head to the side.

Sajit’s still-moist head brushes my ear, his length rapping against my cheek, insistent as a pervy stranger knocking at my airlock, seeking a lewd shelter from an over-sanitized wasteland. I let him in, erasing the cloud, restoring shape to the shapeless, providing porn for the pornless.

About the Author

Jesse Bullington is the author of the weird historical novels The Sad Tale of the Brothers Grossbart, The Enterprise of Death, and The Folly of the World. Under the pen name Alex Marshall he is releasing the Crimson Empire trilogy; the first volume, A Crown for Cold Silver, was shortlisted for the James Tiptree Award, and the second, A Blade of Black Steel, just dropped in May. All of his novels have naughty bits. He’s also the editor of the Shirley Jackson Award-nominated anthology Letters to Lovecraft, and co-editor, with Molly Tanzer, of Swords v. Cthulhu. He can be found in the Pacific Northwest.

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